


The Best of Men

by ShahbanouScheherazade



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (2006)
Genre: Angst, Duty, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Honor, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShahbanouScheherazade/pseuds/ShahbanouScheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of unrelated short works centered around James Norrington, featuring various POTC characters, in no particular order.</p><p>"The best of men cannot suspend their fate:<br/>The good die early; and the bad die late.</p><p> - Daniel Defoe</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Question of Duty

**Author's Note:**

> To My Readers: Thank you so much for your kudos and comments. It means a lot to me when I hear your feedback, and I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate your support!
> 
> NOTE: I have no claim whatsoever to any of the brilliant POTC characters; I am grateful to be sitting at a banquet table set by truly talented storytellers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Norrington ponders unwelcome advice from his father, and makes a fateful decision. One-shot. Complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "Lord Chesterfield's Letters to His Son", and originally written as a challenge response to prompt "bluster" for the FF-forum The Black Pearl.

The hour is late in Port Royal, and even the moon seems weary as it descends, little by little, through the deep blue of the midnight sky. The town is generally quiet, save for a few sporadic sounds of revelry from small parties of drunken soldiers, determined to see out the night as they stagger from one tavern to the next. In the Dockyard of the Royal Navy, most of the windows in the Admiral's headquarters are dark. One light still burns, however; one wakeful officer is unable to sleep.

James Norrington stares unhappily at the large square letter addressed to him, turning it over and over in his hands. He knows it is from his father, knows he must open it, knows he must read it. He can predict its contents as surely as a conjuror names the playing card that will be drawn from a marked deck.

It is merely a matter of stiffening the spine and getting on with it.

Already feeling the helpless resentment that his father's letters invariably provoke, he opens a bottle of Madeira (his second this evening) and downs the first drink in one gulp, then seats himself at his writing table.

He gazes at the soft, burnished glow of the table's rosewood surface and thinks of the countless years of polishing, the many campaigns, the orders given and decisions made to which it has borne silent witness; he rubs his palm across its satiny surface the way a horseman strokes the neck of a favourite mount. His writing table . . . for how much longer? Norrington tries to remember how long it takes to be cashiered out of the Royal Navy. He is not sure; perhaps another glass will help him recall.

News must have travelled faster than he had imagined, and he cringes to think how it will have been received at home: the story of his endless, futile pursuit of a single, disreputable pirate; the destruction wrought by the hurricane when his irrational obsession drove him to stay his course through the storm; the instances of his superiors repeatedly ordering him back to Port Royal ( _how many times was it? He has lost count . . ._ ), before he finally yielded to their authority.

He breaks the wax seal and unfolds the letter.

 _Dear Boy_ , he reads. His father has never addressed him any other way, he thinks. He will never advance sufficiently in age or accomplishments for the old man to do otherwise; it is his way of asserting the lofty authority of a distinguished parent over a child who can never quite measure up to the mark.

The bluster begins immediately, each indignant query like a lash across Norrington's back: _What confounded madness has led to the rash acts of which I have received word? I am persuaded that the tropical sun must have turned your wits! How dare you use your command for a personal venture of any kind, let alone a low, unworthy folly such as this! Are you incapable of grasping the consequences: the wreck of your own life, the threat to your father's advancement? And this is the return I am to expect after tirelessly working to fit you for a brilliant career in the great society of the world. If you cannot mind and remember my advice, all is lost – you have cut a very bad figure at the Admiralty, where all that you have said and done is known!_

Norrington's jaw is clenched with anger at the hopelessness of explaining his position, and his mouth forms a tight, straight line. He sighs, lowers the letter, and sees the second (perhaps the third) glass of Madeira at his elbow. He empties and refills it before continuing to read.

Now the letter proceeds in a more kindly fashion, which Norrington finds just as difficult to bear. His father, having vented his spleen, is preparing to take command of the disaster wrought by his son.

 _As a personal favour_ (this makes Norrington flush with anger and embarrassment), _certain friends on the Admiralty Board have allowed me to recommend that you resign your commission before you can be cashiered out; this may possibly avoid the disgrace of a court-martial – although disobeying orders is an extremely serious charge, as you should not need to be reminded. You must plan to return home quietly without delay, and the family will see what may be done to salvage your prospects. — Adieu._

Norrington lays the letter on the desk, presses the fingertips of his left hand on it, and slides it slowly, deliberately, off the edge, letting it fall to the floor. Disgraced, he thinks, utterly disgraced. The years he had applied himself to his education, the years of service in the Royal Navy under a constant bombardment of admonitory letters from his father — all has been swept away by one dirty, ill-bred rascal of a pirate.

He swallows more of the Madeira, thinking. If he yields to his father's plan, he will never catch the filthy rogues who have ruined his life. Yet he knows that to yield is his filial duty.

But is it a duty which predominates all other considerations? What of his personal quest to rid the Indies of pirates? What of seeking revenge—no, he corrects himself, it is _justice_ he seeks—for the crimes and many insults to his honour administered by one Jack Sparrow?

His father, the Navy. . . none of them understand. With an angry movement, he helps himself to another glass. And Sparrow? Sparrow is getting away with it, isn't he? Making a mockery of all Norrington's beliefs, ruining his match with the pure and lovely Elizabeth, and flouting the efforts of the King's men to discharge their sworn duty.

Norrington begins to entertain a desperate thought: perhaps he should take matters into his own hands. If the Navy and his father cannot see that Sparrow must be dealt with, then perhaps it is up to him, Norrington, to assume the responsibility. Does he have the courage to foreswear all he holds dear so that he may pursue the _Pearl_ by himself?

And how can he pursue them, with no ship or crew of his own? What becomes of a man when he abandons his position?

He stares at the bottle and thinks of Mr Gibbs' chequered career, veering between midshipman and pirate. After a moment, he smiles. There is indeed an answer. He doesn't need to pursue them – he needs to be waiting for them, in the one place he knows he will eventually find them: Tortuga.

At some point, they will require Tortuga, either to indulge their depraved tastes or to sign on new crew. His smile widens; what will they do when they are approached by a renegade wastrel named James Norrington? He might even be able to despatch them on the spot, without signing their damned "Articles" or any other embarrassing claptrap.

He finishes the Madeira and his expression is solemn as he considers any potential setback to his scheme. How long might it take him? It may be months before they visit Tortuga. He considers this logically; if he must wait, so be it. At least Tortuga will have drink. Rum, wine, ale, the pleasures of the town; a man could make himself quite comfortable. He tips the empty bottle on its side. _Dead soldier_ , he muses, _No — this time it will be 'dead pirate'._ The joke makes him laugh quietly.

Then he takes up paper, ink bottle, and quill. _Well, Father_ , he concludes with grim satisfaction _, at least I am falling in with a portion of your plan._

With a sense of unreality, he settles himself to write his final letter to Governor Swann. Its contents are brief:

_Trusting that you will apprehend my reasons, I beg leave to offer my Commission, and take this opportunity to retire to private life, effective immediately. Farewell, and may you and all who belong to you, enjoy many happy years and spare an occasional thought for_

_Your most faithful, dutiful servant._


	2. Perfect Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does love ever truly die? (One-shot. Complete.)

The Flying Dutchman rode at anchor with an eerie stillness in the calm seas between the World of the Living and the distant, echoless shore off her bow. Bound for the world beyond, all of her passengers save one had already descended the ladder in single file, stepping into the small boats and coracles in which they would complete their final journey. The last passenger slowed his steps, and hesitated at the mouldering railing, his head bowed and hands braced on either side of the gangway.

Concerned, Captain Turner stared at the back of the man's head. "We've brought you as far as we may, soldier," he said gently. "There's no ship to take you back. You're nearly home, friend; you'll soon be at peace." The man slowly raised his head and looked back at Will. The look in his dark, expressive eyes told of the great burden of grief he carried, although he tried to smile.

"Admiral Norrington!" Will exclaimed. "I had forgotten that you would be one of the souls I'm charged with escorting." He stepped forward to clasp Norrington's hand, saying, "I'm in your debt, sir. But for your actions, Elizabeth would have died. I can never repay you for your sacrifice."

Norrington lifted his gaze hopefully, knowing that this was the moment he must make his petition to the Captain of the Dutchman. "If I may beg a favour of you - if I may hope you might grant it-," he said, knitting his brows together, "Would you allow me the privilege, the honour, of serving aboard the Dutchman?" He waited for the answer with anxious, intent concentration.

Will was taken aback; flattered, but unsure why it seemed so important to Norrington. It wasn't fear of death, and it certainly wasn't fondness for Will, his victorious rival for Elizabeth's hand. Still, Norrington looked so quietly desperate, so humble and sincere, that Will could not find it in him to refuse.

"I suppose I owe you this much; you gave up your life for her," he replied. "Very well." He pointed to the ship's bow. "Help ready the ship for weighing, then; we need to make passage back to the oceans of the living world."

"Ay, Captain." Norrington saluted, relief washing over his face.

As he began to carry out his orders, Norrington's heart was filled with hope and gratitude. He thought of his last glimpse of Elizabeth - not on the dark and bloody night of his death, but later, from the deck of this very vessel. Through a salt-encrusted spyglass, he had seen her for just one moment, when she greeted Will at the shoreline for the day they were promised: one day for every ten years of Will's service.

Norrington smiled as he recalled Bootstrap remarking to Will that ten years was a heavy price for one day; "depends on the day", his son had answered. Leaning on the rail, Norrington thought the same of his own bargain. As long as he served on the Dutchman, he would not be parted from Elizabeth: every ten years, he would see her face once more through that spyglass, as she greeted her husband.

His own life was never meant to be joined with hers – that he knew – but he could still watch over her from afar. With a light heart, he lifted his head and made his way forward to where the crew was hauling up the ship's anchors. He could bear the next ten years easily, for they would pay for one more glimpse of the glorious, radiant face of his perfect love.


	3. The Devil's Contract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His obsessive pursuit of Jack Sparrow has made Norrington a broken man. But Cutler Beckett has a plan to mend him, and Mercer is just the person to negotiate terms. (One-shot. Complete.)

Mercer followed the potboy out of the Faithful Bride’s taproom, up the tavern’s stairs, and along the shabby hallway to the farthest door. The boy raised his hand to knock, but paused and shot a questioning glance at Mercer, who nodded curtly.

The boy banged loudly on the door. "Oi! Y've a visitor, mate!" he bellowed, as though trying to wake the dead. Mercer pushed the boy aside and let himself into the room.

Inside, heavy curtains blocked the tropical sun and the furnishings smelled strongly of countless pipes smoked and spirits consumed by previous occupants, who had evidently indulged in every imaginable activity except rudimentary hygiene. The dirty bedclothes were creased and twisted like ropes entangling the limbs of the sleeper sprawled across the lumpy bed.

The man Mercer sought to interview was in his thirties, and showed signs of having once been quite handsome; however, his unshaven face, oily, unwashed hair, and the red blotches that marred his complexion all told of his habitual drunken excesses. He had raised himself clumsily on one elbow and lay glaring resentfully at his visitor. 

"Damn you and your noise, man! Who are you?" he demanded, half-awake and bleary-eyed. 

"Not quite the introduction I intended," Mercer said sourly, by way of apology for the potboy’s boisterous shouts. "You and I have a mutual friend..." he began.

"With cloven hooves, no doubt," retorted the disheveled man, slurring his words. "There's more than a whiff of brimstone about you."

". . . who is concerned for your welfare, Commodore—I beg your pardon— _Mister_ Norrington," Mercer continued respectfully, laying gentle stress upon the humble honorific. "It is through his generosity that you occupy this room, rather than the gutter where I found you last night. Or is that a time too distant for recollection?"

Norrington shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead with an unsteady hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked in icy tones. “Get on with it.”

Mercer, who had been silently assessing the likelihood of nits in the upholstery, dragged a small deal chair towards the bed. Once seated, he crossed his legs and rested his hat upon his knee; he appeared not to have noticed Norrington’s question or the hostility in his voice.

"How do you find your quarters?” he enquired in a solicitous tone. “Oh, I know it isn't much, but to many it would appear luxurious." He gazed thoughtfully at his hat. "For example,” he continued, “I grew up in a highland crofter's cottage -- ever visit one of them? No, of course not. Well, it was a hard road to better m'self. My old mamm would have thought the world of a room like this. But when you're accustomed to ease and comfort, you don't always appreciate it until it’s gone." 

Norrington did not reply, so Mercer reached down and took up a bottle and dirty glass from the floor. He sniffed at the inside of the glass and made a face. Then, filling it from the bottle, he recited: 

_“For wilful waste makes woeful want,_  
_And you may live to say_  
_‘How much I wish I had the crust_  
_That then I threw away.’"_

With a grim smile, he handed the glass to Norrington. “Easy to squander your life, laddie – not least when filthy rogues have ruined the best of it.” 

"Tell your friend that I shall repay him for the room,” Norrington declared, taking a quick gulp, “Just as soon as . . ."

"Just as soon as you are able?” Mercer suggested, in soothing tones. “Ah, well, that's the question, isn't it. What if you are able, at this very moment?" 

Norrington was silent for some time, but finally said, “Go on.” 

“Wouldn’t you like your old life back?” asked Mercer. “To have your former honours restored? And you would have only to discharge the merest of duties.” He took several coins from his pocket as though he intended to count them. “Pass along a little information, seize a trinket our friend has ta’en a fancy to ––”

"If you think me a thief or a spy, you mistake me," Norrington interjected coldly. 

"Wouldn’t want to do that," Mercer replied, unperturbed. He dropped the coins back into his pocket. _You’d think a swordsman would recognise a feint,_ he thought with amusement. _You’ll thieve, spy, and worse, laddie, once I find the whip and spur you’ll answer to._

“Many have said the same as you,” remarked Mercer, “but the truth is, they’d rather be in the good graces of a certain pirate captain than on the side of England’s laws . . . perhaps that’s the way of it with you?” he asked casually. 

“When next I see ‘Captain’ Sparrow, he’ll pay, either at the point of my sword or the end of the hangman’s rope,” Norrington replied through his teeth.

 _I’ve almost got you,_ thought Mercer. Then he added another question, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “By the by, Mister Norrington, whatever happened to that lass of yours – Elizabeth, was it?” 

His sharp eyes caught the momentary spasm of pain and despair he saw on Norrington’s face. _So that’s what you can never forgive,_ he concluded.

“Ah...” Mercer said with fatherly understanding. He nodded and leaned closer to Norrington as if to avoid being overheard. “T’was Jack Sparrow that did this to you, was it not?” he enquired in a whisper. “Then the rumours are true – he ruined you and stole the heart of your lady love.”

“Not her heart – not Elizabeth,” Norrington protested. “She – she loved another.”

“You don’t say?” answered Mercer. “That’s odd then, that she would steal letters of marque and set out to find Sparrow, don’t you think?”

Norrington looked at him, shocked. Mercer refreshed his glass.

"So, what shall we do, laddie?" Mercer said, almost to himself. “That sad-faced band of ragtag cutthroats should have been dealt with long ago. And we can do it, you and I. We only need the chest Sparrow is hunting for. If, let us say, instead of killing him outright, you were to find your way onto the Pearl, you could seize the chest when he finds it, and bring it to Lord Beckett.” Norrington gave him a sudden, sharp look.

“The rewards would be unsurpassed,” Mercer pursued. “You could be the man who leads the naval force that will rid the world of all pirates, includin’ Sparrow.” Then, indicating the room with a nod, he added, “You and I both know you don’t belong here.”

The reflective look in Norrington’s eyes told Mercer it was time to seal the bargain. He stood up, extracted the coins once more, and placed a small stack of them upon the chair seat. 

“Enough to keep you for a week,” he announced. “Then you’ve only to apply to the innkeeper for more.” He grimaced. “Just a precaution to guard against any temptation to squander it all at once.”

Norrington watched Mercer put on his hat and walked to the door. He had given no assent, but the little stack of coins remained on the chair.

 _I’ll pay the innkeeper to keep the wenches and tarts off him,_ Mercer decided. _Let him think on Elizabeth Swann and Jack Sparrow, and how spilt blood will kill more pain than rum ever did._

Norrington suddenly roused himself from his reverie. “Just a moment: how do you know Sparrow will come to Tortuga?”

“Oh, he will, laddie, he will. I pride myself on my ability to judge men,“ Mercer smiled. “I’m sure we’ll be having a pleasant conversation soon. And I hope to be addressing you as Admiral Norrington when we do.”

He bowed to Norrington, and departed the room.


End file.
